Creed of Our Own
by Shurely
Summary: To rid Masyaf of the Saracens, Umar Ibn-La'Ahad must venture into their ranks and warn Salah Al'din of the consequences of battle against the Assassins. However, assassinations are never easy to accomplish, something that will cost Umar dearly. Set before the events of Assassin's Creed.


As a Master Assassin, it was essential for his mission to be fulfilled to a standard no less than perfect. This he could handle. Perfection had become another part of him, something he executed daily, either on Al Mualim's orders or generally assisting the Brotherhood. The expectations of him were no less daunting than training in the yard back at the fortress. But he knew how to contain his confidence, unlike some of his brothers. He contained it like his hidden blade, only revealing it when he struck. Every movement of his was like a panther stalking the shadows of its territory - except everywhere was his territory. There was no way to block his advance, no way to amplify his silent footsteps, no way to shed light on his darkness. He was an Assassin. If he wasn't perfection, he wouldn't be alive.

His trained eye noticed the gravel scattered around the perimeter of the camp: chalk and cinders. It wasn't a hindrance. He walked across, his leather boots hardly crushing what had meant to serve as an alarm to the Saracens. A patrol passed by, and he held his breath as he pressed himself against the thick skin of the tent nearby. They talked in whispers, wielding scimitars that reflected the red flames of the torches they held. What they failed to see was the Assassin skulking behind them, cowl hiding his golden eyes. He did not attack: those were not his orders. No, his mission was passive, and he intended to see it to the letter.

Of course, a spy had warned him beforehand of the guards and intense protection that bordered on paranoia. He stifled a grin as he crept past a pair of idle men, whining to each other about the condition of their boots and sore feet. They didn't even raise a hair when he slunk so close, he could've touched them without fully extending his arm. Then he carried on. He couldn't dawdle.

His destination was - surprisingly - not the bejewelled tent that boasted exotic silk and gilded pomegranates, but the inconspicuous tent near it that the wardens directed cautious glances at. Even if they weren't being so obvious, he knew that was the Sultan's accommodation. He moved lithely, brushing past the curtains of the entrance and regarding Salah Al'din vigilantly. He ignored the man who rustled in his sleep, clutching the sides of pallet, and drew out the feather from within his robes. Leaving it on the desk, he thrust his dagger into a note written by Al Mualim, and approached the pallet. Exhaling calmly, he embedded it next to the Sultan; the man grumbled fitfully and shook his head, as if to ward off a bad dream.

He backed out of the tent, keeping an eye on the Sultan. If he should wake, then all his work would have been spoilt. A gut feeling was telling him to turn around; he decided to listen to it, and was surprised to see a man's shadow cast onto the entrance of the tent. Stifling a curse, he readied his hidden blade. He wasn't meant to kill - that would defy his instructions - but one guard's life was trifling compared to the ulterior motive. The silk was drawn back, and he thrust his left hand forward, flicking his wrist simulataneously to achieve a perfect kill. His other hand supported the man's neck, and he saw with considerable dismay that the man was no guard: he was a noble. Blood dribbled from his neck onto his fine clothing, and he gurgled, eyes blinking in stupefaction.

Yet he had been careless. He heard rustling from behind him, followed by a yell of terror and fury. The Sultan was awake. Wasting no time, he dropped the body and burst into a sprint, exiting the tent and rushing past the others as guards sped to assist the Sultan. He knew the layout, and made sure that his trail was lost amongst the labyrinthine pathways. By the perimeter was his horse, shaking its head almost exasperatedly, and he leapt onto its back, immediately spurring it into a gallop.

He arrived at the Assassin fortress heaving and desperate for Al Mualim's audience. As quickly as he could, he commanded a novice to fetch the man and meet him in the throne room. Meanwhile, he made his way to the designated place, hardly speaking to the Assassins who questioned him on his impatient manner. Finally, Al Mualim emerged from the darkness, gripping his black robes protectively.

"Umar," he rasped, "welcome."

Aware of his ruffled demeanour, he bowed his head, oblivious to the cold bite of the morning. "Master." He dared not raise his voice, lest others heard of his failure. But he remained passive, hiding his disappointment.

If Al Mualim sensed anything unusual about the Master Assassin, he did not show it. "You've come to tell me of your mission?" he enquired, lighting a nearby lamp. Umar allowed the flitting shadows sneaking along the marble and revealing the subtle cracks and chips to distract him. Flaws in the perfect stone. He gritted his teeth and nodded. He watched as the other man noticed his blood-stained sleeve.

"Was our agent's information correct?" It was a simple question, one that Umar could easily answer.

"Yes, Master." He swallowed. "I made my way into their encampment, and, just as we were told, the gaudy pavilion was a decoy. Salah Al'din's tent was nearby - a much less conspicuous accommodation."

"Excellent, excellent," he praised, smiling. "And how were you able to identify it?"

"It was protected, just as our spy said it would be, with chalk and cinders scattered on the perimeter so my steps would be heard."

"But they were not?"

He swallowed his momentary flash of pride. "No, Master, and I was able to enter the Sultan's tent and leave the feather as instructed."

"And the letter?"

"Pinned by dagger to his pallet."

"And then?" Umar could hear the slight strain in his voice. Waiting for the inevitable disaster.

"I crept from his tent..."

"And?"

He paused, trying to force the memory out his mind. "The Sultan awoke and raised the alarm. I was only just able to escape with my life."

"And that?" Al Mualim asked sharply, gesturing to his crimson sleeve.

"I was forced to cut a throat in order to ensure my escape, Master."

"A guard?" The hope in his voice was painful to hear.

He shook his head, saying quietly, regretfully, "He wore the turban and vest of a nobleman."

Silence. Then: "There was no other option?" Al Mualim replied softly, closing his eyes.

"I acted rashly, Master."

"But otherwise your mission was a success?"

"Yes, Master."

"Then we will see what transpires."

Umar bowed again and left Al Mualim pondering. He was tired. He had failed. Perhaps he could afford himself an hour of rest to reflect on his mistake. Hardly watching the fortress as more Assassins stirred and dragged themselves to the training yard, he walked to his quarters. However, before he opened the door, he heard the pattering of bare feet from within the room, and the door opened before he could.

"Father?"

Standing and shivering, Altaïr beamed at him, hugging himself. Umar sighed and ushered him back inside. He collapsed onto his pallet, remembering the deed he had followed out not long ago. He regarded his son as the boy sat, cross-legged, on his own bed. Nothing had changed: not the humble rushes on the floor, not the grim grey stone that enclosed them, not the desk with a few pieces of parchment and quill dorning it.

"What's wrong, Father?" he asked innocently. "Why were you gone so early?"

Umar closed his eyes, unwilling to respond. Then: "A small favour for Al Mualim."

But his son would not easily be misled. He gasped and Umar opened an eye. Altaïr was staring at the blood. "Are you hurt, Father?"

"No, no. Just..." he racked his brain for an excuse. "Just blood from the newly-born foal."

The boy relaxed slightly, still eyeing the sleeve. Exhausted, he beckoned him over, and Altaïr lay next to him, light brown hair tickling his nose. Umar touched his son's head, and muttered, "Later, we can play a game in the courtyard."

"Really?" Altaïr said excitedly.

"Yes. But not now. I'm tired. Go play with Faheem Al-Sayf's sons. What are their names? Malik and Kadar, am I correct?"

"But Father," he protested, "Malik doesn't like my games. And Kadar is too slow to play."

Umar chuckled. "Kadar is far younger than you, Altaïr. Perhaps you shouldn't play such rough games."

"I just want to play with _you_, Father."

"Enough." He groaned. "Let me sleep."

A few hours later, he stood next to Al Mualim, observing intently as Shihab Al'din guided his stallion up the slope to confront the Assassins. Salah Al'din had hastily departed from Masyaf with a selection of men to accompany him, almost as if his ambitions of crushing the Assassins and claiming the fortress his own had never existed, and here was Shihab and an envoy to speak before them. The Saracens had been proven weak, flawed compared to the Assassins. Umar tensed, expecting snide words of condescension to crawl out from the envoy; instead, he was amused to hear the man call out with a hint of apprehension.

"His Majesty Salah Al'din has received your message, and thanks you most graciously for it." He almost snorted. "He has business elsewhere and has left, with instructions for His Excellency Shihab Al'din to enter into talks." The envoy glanced at the man atop the stallion, and rubbed his hands together nervously. However, Shihab didn't look unduly concerned; in fact, he seemed rather nonchalant, head held high, perhaps to catch the glint of the sunlight upon the inordinately sized jewel in his turban.

Al Mualim, hands clasped in front of him, replied, "Do begin." He did not need to speak loudly for the Saracens to hear: his voice echoed from the tower to reach them easily.

Umar suppressed the worm of worry gnawing at his insides, and cast a glance at Al Mualim. Whether the mentor was anticipating the envoy's next words or dreading them, he couldn't tell.

"His Majesty Salah Al'din accepts your offer of peace."

Al Mualim looked at him and caught his eye; Umar noticed the slight smile and raised eyebrows. Then the mentor looked past him, to where Faheem Al-Sayf stood, pursing his lips.

"Have we assurance that our sect can operate without further hostilities, and no further interference in our activities?" he demanded, returning his attention to the Saracens.

There was a moment of pause, and then the envoy responded. "As long as interests allow, you have that assurance."

"Then I accept His Majesty's offer. You may remove your men from Masyaf. Perhaps you would be good enough to repair our stockade as you leave."

Hearing that, Shihab glared daggers at the Assassins, evidently provoked. He beckoned to the envoy, who listened and nodded fervently. Finally, the envoy cupped his hands and said, "During the delivery of the message, one of Salah Al'din's trusted generals was killed." Instantaneously, Umar's blood ran ice cold and he clenched his fists. Unaware of static tension between the Assassins, he continued. "His Majesty requires reparation. The head of the culprit."

The Master Assassin felt Faheem's accusing stare burning the side of his face, and he swallowed. This fear was different to the fear he'd felt as a novice. When he'd assassinated, he had been in control; if he died, it was_his_ fault for being unprepared. Now his fate rested upon Al Mualim's decision, and, for the first time since becoming a Master Assassin, he felt fear: the fear of being helpless.

No. He was not helpless. He always had a choice. He realised both Assassins and Saracens had fallen silent, waiting for a response.

"You may tell the Sultan that I reject that demand."

It was foolish, and they knew it. Shihab shrugged, shifting his position on the saddle, and addressed the envoy. In turn, the envoy spoke to Al Mualim.

"His Excellency wishes to inform you that, unless you agree to the demand, a force will remain here at Masyaf, and that our patience is greater than your store of supplies. Would you have the peace agreement count for nothing? Would you allow your villagers and your men to starve? All for the head of one Assassin? His Excellency dearly hopes not."

Knowing his destiny, Umar leaned closer to the mentor, hissing, "I will go. The mistake was mine. It is only right I should pay for it." As soon as the words left his lips, the image of Altaïr entered his mind, and he quickly pushed it away. Not now, he told himself, biting his lip.

"I will not give up the life of one of my men," Al Mualim reiterated firmly.

The envoy wrung his hands. "Then His Excellency regrets your decision and asks that you bear witness to a matter now in need of resolution. We have discovered the existence of a spy in our camp, and he must be executed."

Umar mentally cursed and Al Mualim gave a sharp gasp. An executioner's block was dragged out from the Saracen's crowd and placed before Shihab's stallion. Following it was the Assassin spy, the one that had revealed Salah Al'din's true location to the Assassins and told Umar of the traps set by the opposition. His head rolled on his shoulders; Umar could see the mud and blood encrusting his skin, bruises blackening his features. On his knees, he was brought to the block, and a man yanked his head back to reveal his throat.

Ahmad Sofian. He moaned through cracked lips, barely manage to squint at the executioner that approached, gripping a bejewelled scimitar. Umar found he had frozen. Shihab growled.

"Do you want that on your conscience, Umar Ibn-La'Ahad?" he roared.

Al Mualim's shoulders drooped, defeated. But the Master Assassin knew. He couldn't stand it. Ahmad was innocent, having suffered ill-deserved torture, and he knew what he had to do. His duty to the Brotherhood. "Let me go," he implored, no longer afraid. "_Master_, please."

The executioner readied himself, and then raised the scimitar, watching - as the Assassins were - the writhing, whimpering, feeble form of Ahmad.

"Your last chance, Assassin," Shihab goaded.

The Assassins looked at Al Mualim, looked at Umar. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Master, let me go."

Barely perceptibly, the mentor nodded.

"_Stop_!" Umar bellowed. He walked over to the platform, unobscured so the Saracens could see him. "I am Umar Ibn-La'Ahad. It is my life that you should take."

Shihab Al'din sneered. The Saracens whispered excitedly, some even pointing at him. He felt no glory. He felt...hollow. The executioner stood back as Shihab gestured to him. "Very well. Come - take your place on the block."

Remembering something, Umar turned to Al Mualim, almost humoured by the man's red-rimmed eyes. "Master, I ask you one final favour. That you see to the care of Altaïr." His beloved son. The light brown hair, brushing against his face, youthful features drawn with concern.

Al Mualim inclined his head, understanding his emotions, his sacrifice. "Of course, Umar. Of course."

He climbed down the ladders, passing the hushed Assassins as they bowed their heads, acknowledging him. He descended to the main gate. The bird were singing, he realised, and the sweet smell of flowers reached him. There was a slight breeze, cool against his skin, touching the beads of sweat. He reached the wicket gate; the sentry opened it, and he bent to move under it.

That's when he heard his son. _Altaïr._

"_Father_."

The sound of bare feet pattering on the ground accompanied the anguished voice. He could hardly bear the pain, the guilt wedged in his chest, telling him that he had to leave his son so abruptly. Closing his eyes, feeling the tears trickle down his cheeks, he bit his tongue to stop himself from replying, he stepped out, the wind guiding him forward. The gate closed behind him, and opened again only when Ahmad was plucked from the block and thrust towards the fortress. Umar opened his eyes and tried to convey reassurance to the man, but Ahmad hung his head: beaten to the point of utmost shame.

He dropped to his knees, rough hands holding his shoulders. There was the executioner. Beyond him, the azure sky. In the sky, flew an eagle. He exposed his neck, completely calm. Altaïr would be safe under Al Mualim's wing. No doubt he would become a great Assassin, honouring his father.

"_Father_."


End file.
